


A New Species of Insect

by KeelTheLight (K9Lasko)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexuality is complicated, But not always, But they might be sometimes, Could be Dangerous, Doesn't actually involve insects, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Drug Addiction, Ficlet Collection, Flash Fic, Fluff and Angst, John's POV (mostly), M/M, POV First Person, Parenting is also complicated, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Short, Slice of Life, Stories Aren't Necessarily Connected, could also be romantic, or something, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-05-08 10:29:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K9Lasko/pseuds/KeelTheLight
Summary: John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John.Rosie, too.A collection of short fiction.(Based on BBC's Sherlock)





	1. Gladly. SH

**Author's Note:**

> This is a COLLECTION of (mostly) unrelated short-form fiction, but most of the stories involve John and Sherlock living at 221B Baker Street and trying to raise another human being. Scary thought.
> 
> Fairly fluffy. But also, emotions.
> 
> Most will be post Season 4, but others might not be. Most (if not all) will be short.

**Can you please go pick up Rosie from daycare?  They said she’s running a fever.  I can’t leave work early again.**

 

**What are you doing?  Are you out?  Can you go pick her up right now?**

 

**We are not doing this again.  You just texted me 17 times about foot bones not even an hour ago.  I know you’re ignoring me.  Can you help?**

 

**Can you help?**

 

**SHERLOCK GO PICK UP ROSIE.**

 

The unanswered texts were starting to stack up, and I was beginning to feel like a nagging girlfriend.  But, I knew the only way to beat Sherlock at his own game was to be just as persistent, just as inappropriately pushy, and just as bloody annoying as he was.  Being thus acquainted with him did that; I used to be an everyday normal sort of bloke, believe it or not.  A bit broken, a bit screwed up — but relatively normal, all things considered.  Now, after Sherlock happened, I’m still broken and screwed up, but at least I’ve got another broken and screwed up person to muck about with, yeah?  Time for another text message.

 

**That’s it. When I get home tonight, I’m tossing out that thing that’s been in the fridge for ages now. Not sure what it is, but it’s going in the bin first thing.**

 

Every time I leapt into an unoccupied exam room to fire off a new text, I felt the burn rise – Oh, you won’t win this time, Sherlock Holmes. Nooo, you. Will. NOT. 

 

**I’m not joking.**

 

**I’m NOT joking.**

 

Still nothing, and there probably will continue to be nothing from him.  That's how Sherlock is most of the time: unbearably rude, impossibly selfish, unbelievably...  I had to stop myself, because Sherlock is exactly as advertised.  You cannot expect much from a person who's never let on that you ought to expect anything at all from him.  Silly, me.

 

Just as I was resigning myself to break it gently to my employer that I would be dodging out early -- yet again -- from another busy afternoon at the surgery my mobile dinged.  Not from Sherlock’s number, but from Greg Lestrade’s.  I read it and breathed a sigh of relief.  Then I read it again.

 

**On my way. SH**

 

And that was it.  No theatrical complaints.  No bargaining for future favours.  Just “on my way.”  I decided to fire off another missive, just to make sure things were clear.  You never knew.  I never knew.  Not with Sherlock, anyway.

 

**Take her straight home, yeah?  I’ll be done here around half 4.  Ring me when you get home.**

 

And the reply, almost immediately this time:

 

**Gladly. SH**

 

_"Marchmont Street"_ |  _Photo by K9Lasko_


	2. Completely Innocent and Strange

“We can’t keep doing this,” I said from where I sat on a hard plastic chair.  It was ergonomically designed to dissuade visitors from hanging around too long.  But not this visitor, not me.  No.  I’ve dragged it closer to the bed, just a hair closer, and only so I could rest my feet on the bed whilst I'm obliged to be stationed here all night.  My leg twinged.  My shoulder ached.  'For Sherlock's benefit,' I told myself.  'Mycroft's orders,' I also told myself.  I wouldn't be here otherwise, would I?  Yes.  I would.  Being Sherlock's minder is something that comes naturally to me, but it's become harder to carry out the job properly, I'll admit.  Like right now, for example.

 

“Keep doing what?” Sherlock asked.  He looked suitably exhausted, but he did a good job hiding it behind an affectless face.  His hair had dried greasy and tangled on his forehead.

 

“This,” I said, spreading my arms around the drab hospital room -- not actually a room, more like a tiny cubicle with curtains as barriers -- in a sweeping, expansive gesture.  Actually, I meant all of it, everything Sherlock put me through and everything Sherlock put himself through, not just the sometimes-Hell that is the NHS.  "Something needs to change."

 

Sherlock held my gaze, met it with that look he often gave me.  Curious, calculating.  Wondering how far he could push me.  Trying to gauge emotion, no doubt.  While he was no emotionless automaton as I might have suspected earlier in our friendship, Sherlock was still a bumbling student of human emotion.  So many of his reactions were learned responses.  He memorized them by rote, sifted through “the good” and “the bit not good.”  He called upon them when he needed to.  Which also meant he could put on whatever emotion was convenient for the moment.  This much I’d figured out.  He was brilliant, really.  Alarmingly so.  A truly, incredibly, alarmingly brilliant actor.

 

This would be too much, going on like this.  It wasn't meant to last.  I felt the limit coming to meet us and our unique friendship.  I felt each drugs binge led us somewhere I didn’t want to be anymore, and somewhere I couldn’t be, not with a small child to look after and raise up into a decent person.  I felt, stupidly, that it was me against the world, and me against Sherlock, too, at times — Sherlock who’d been made unstable and mad by his own mistakes, his own ego.  He knew I was still angry with him, and he was right, of course.  He seemed to welcome that anger.  

 

I know Sherlock quite well, and I know he’d call suffering my anger a penance of sorts.  I’ll admit, he is an easy person to be angry with.  I did blame him for what happened to Mary and for what happened to me after Mary and for what happened to me before Mary… and for everything else.  I blamed him for everything.  And he knew that.

 

I definitely made him know it when I beat the fuck out of him in front of Culverton Smith, and I made him know it when I left him there on the floor afterwards.

 

I’m not proud of myself for any of it.  My behaviour was appalling.  And if Sherlock’s absolution from his own pressing guilt meant nearly killing himself with drugs and then tricking me into beating him up to keep him from stabbing people with scalpels, then no thank you.  I never asked to be part of that, yet there I was.  And here I am.  Again.  I always seem to be the unwitting participant in Sherlock’s experiments, but that one had gone too far.  And this one?  It's on the brink.  

 

“You can’t keep doing this,” I rephrased.  “Neither can I.”  I put my two feet flat on the floor and leant forward.  “Are you listening?  You are an addict, Sherlock, and you need to stop.”  I again held his gaze, but there was something strange and empty now.  Nothing at all typical of my sharp and ever-aware friend.

 

“I am not an addict,” said Sherlock, his voice an odd, grating rasp.  “I am a—“

 

Here comes the rationalisation.

 

“No,” I stopped him.  “A user is no different than an addict.  In fact, you’re the worst kind of addict: one who believes they have control.  One who believes, despite reality, that their habit is not capable of harm and that they can stop using if they'd like.”  I leant even closer to him.  “You’ve been high as a kite for days.  Do you even remember?”

 

“Remember what?” asked Sherlock.

 

I stared at him.  Even now, he was still too high to fake emotion, which left him looking raw and, for once, honest.  “Sherlock,” I started to say, and I — without thinking — reached out and put a palm against his cheek.  He didn't move away from my hand.  He felt hot, and his skin was dry.  'I’m fond of you, despite it all,' I thought.  Fondness, a soft emotion, something Sherlock disliked.  It was also fondness which prompted me to rub at his cheek with the pad of my thumb.  I swallowed and fought to figure out a simple way to explain what had happened over the past forty-eight hours.  My own fears of what might be coming.

 

Fact was, Sherlock had ended up here in hospital after a manic episode fueled mostly by the damned drugs and probably some sort of mental break as well.  I had found him arguing with himself in the middle of the destroyed sitting room of 221B, furniture turned over, a coffee table smashed to bits, books tossed from shelves.  He had been scribbling frantically on one wall with a thick felt tip pen, and if I squinted and tilted my head, it appeared to be a very detailed map of the London Underground.  When he saw me, he began to pace, and he began to babble about a sister.  That was when I noticed that he’d got ahold of my pistol.  He held it in his left hand, finger on the trigger.  Sherlock never was one for firearms safety.  I couldn’t stop myself, and I’d asked him rather loudly, whilst he was in the midst of his mess and his madness, “What in the hell is going on here?”  That was, apparently, the wrong question to ask in that moment.

 

“Remember what?” Sherlock asked again, jarring me back.  He finally brushed my hand away from his face, then tried to sit up straighter, and when that proved to be a bit too strenuous, he settled for looking around the room in confusion.  “Why am I here?  Why have you brought me here?”  He noticed something else; it had taken him long enough.  His breathing picked up.  "Why am I restrained?"

 

“Hey,” I said.  I took ahold of his hand, clasped it firmly, calmly.  “It’s all fine now.  Your psychosis was pretty dramatic.  They'll take those off in a bit, I promise, now that you're mostly lucid.  You’ll get some help.”

 

“Help? What for?” asked Sherlock in suspicion.  “Did you call my brother?  You did.  This is Mycroft.  I knew it.”

 

“No,” I said.  “It’s not just Mycroft.  It’s everybody who gives a damn about you, Sherlock.  So if you blame your brother, you’ll have to blame me as well, and some other people, too.  Even Sally Donovan.”

 

“Then I will,” he replied.  He tried to sound angry, but it came out croaky and pathetic instead.  He looked at me briefly, then looked down at our hands clasped together.

 

I gave him a close-lipped smile, something meant to be reassuring.  I hope it was.  It’s fondness, I suddenly thought again.  Fondness that was completely innocent and strange.  Then I leant in even closer; in fact, I had to stand up a bit to do it.  He didn’t move away, even as my lips touched his temple.  I kept them there for longer than I’d intended, and when I knew it had to end, I sank back into the chair and let out a breath.  I shut my eyes; my face flushed red.  I hadn't planned that.

 

"Why did you kiss me?" asked Sherlock.  He seemed wary, closed off.  Not unlike his usual way of being, but rarely was that extended to me.

 

"I don't know," I said.  I had to be honest.  I didn't know.  It just happened.  

 

Sherlock stared at me, and then he just nodded.  He said, "Okay."  And then, "So which rehab facility is Mycroft sending me off to?"

 

_"Love"_ |  _Photo by K9Lasko_


	3. Another Time Sherlock Took the Tube (For Rosie)

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 09:21 to contact: Sherlock_ ** __

Sherlock. I completely forgot and did not buy the supplies Rosie needed for the arts class project today. The school just phoned me, but I’m stuck at the surgery with back to back appointments. Can you please get what she needs and drop it off for her? They need it by noon. I’m sending a picture of the list.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 09:39 to contact: Sherlock_ ** __

Are you awake? It’s nearly 10AM. Did you see my last text? Please respond and let me know how it is going.

 

**_Picture Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:00 to contact: J Watson_ **

[Photo Attached] – (It is a closeup of one scuffed black shoe abandoned in the middle of the street just outside a zebra crossing. It’s been raining and the pavement is wet.)

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:01 to contact: Sherlock_ **

What is this? Did you get my text? I could really use your help this morning. Rosie will be so upset at me.

 

**_SMS Message: Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:10 to contact: Sherlock_ **

Hello?

 

**_Picture Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:13 to contact: J Watson_ **

[Photo Attached] – (It is of an ambulance. Lights on. The chicken place it sits in front of is familiar. It’s not too far from home, but also not especially close.)

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:13 to contact: J Watson_ **

Tottenham Court Road. Near the underground station. Hit and run. Lestrade is here. A three, at best. If that. More like a 1 1/2. SH

 

**_SMS Message: Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:14 to contact: Sherlock_ **

I am calling you after this next appointment. You better answer.

 

**_Picture Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:18 to contact: J Watson_ **

[Photo Attached] – (It is the shoe again. This time taken from a different angle and from further away. In the background, traffic is gridlocked.)

 

**_Missed Call from J Watson. Monday, 18 Feb 2023 at 10:27. “I’m sorry, but the person you called has a voice mailbox that has not been set up yet… Goodbye.”_ **

 

**_Missed Call from J Watson. Monday, 18 Feb 2023 at 10:28. “I’m sorry, but the person you called has a voice mailbox that has not been set up yet… Goodbye.”_ **

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:29 to contact: Sherlock_ **

I do not know what is wrong with you, Sherlock. I ask you to do one thing and you’ve completely ignored me. I’m not asking you to do this for me. It’s for Rosie.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:30 to contact: Sherlock_ **

And I understand. I know you’re busy (???) If you cannot do this, that’s fine. It’s fine. But please communicate so I can reach out to someone else.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:30 to contact: Sherlock_ **

PLEASE RESPOND. I do not have the time to continue this. I will call you again after the next appointment. - JOHN

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 10:47 to contact: J Watson_ **

The wheels are in motion. Not ignoring you. Everything is well in-hand. SH

 

**_Picture Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 11:04 to contact: J Watson_ **

[Photo Attached] – (It is of two pencil pouches, side by side, on a shop shelf. They are both £6, according to the price label. The picture is slightly blurry, as if taken hastily.)

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 11:04 to contact: J Watson_ **

John. Peppa Pig or Captain Marvel? SH

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 11:05 to contact: Sherlock_ **

That’s not on the list. She needs: felt tip markers (8 pack), glue (liquid, not a stick), pipe cleaners (multicolour). There was more. Did you see the list? It’s almost noon. Where are you?

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent: 11:07 to contact: Sherlock_ **

And Captain Marvel, of course.

 

**_Missed Call from J Watson. Monday, 18 Feb 2023 at 11:08. “I’m sorry, but the person you called has a voice mailbox that has not been set up yet… Goodbye.”m_ **

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent 11:08 to contact: Sherlock_ **

Why won’t you answer my calls? Did you find everything Rosie needs?

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent 11:43 to contact: J Watson_ **

Done. At King’s Cross. Had no reception. SH

 

**_SMS Message; Monday, 18 Feb 2023; Sent 11:44 to contact: Sherlock_ **

You took the tube? Will you get to the school on time?

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 11:44 to contact: J Watson_ **

Regrettably yes and thankfully yes. SH

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 11:44 to contact: Sherlock_ **

Thank you. You are amazing. Rosie will be thrilled.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 11:46 to contact: Sherlock_ **

Thank you again. Really. Means a lot to me. I’m so relieved.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 11:46 to contact: Sherlock_ **

I’ll see you at home then?

 

**_Picture Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:01 to contact: J Watson_ **

[Photo Attached] - (It is of Sherlock and Rosie. Sherlock has knelt down to Rosie’s level in a position that must be uncomfortable for his knees. Rosie leans close at his side. Her hair is plaited in messy pigtails, which John had suffered through this morning. She smiles widely at the camera. Sherlock also manages a smile, although his is close-mouthed and restrained. But the skin crinkling near his eyes betrays him.)

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:01 to contact: Sherlock_ **

A selfie? Never thought I’d see the day.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:01 to contact: J Watson_ **

I was coerced by your daughter. She is very convincing. SH

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:02 to contact: J Watson_ **

By the way, the headmistress reads your blog. SH

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:02 to contact: J Watson_ **

She fancies you. SH

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:14 to contact: Sherlock_ **

She told you that? Odd conversation for a simple drop-off of art supplies. Even for you.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:15 to contact: J Watson_ **

She didn’t have to say anything. SH

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:15 to contact: Sherlock_ **

Right. Of course. Because you’re you.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:16 to contact: J Watson_ **

Of course I am me. I know no other way of being. SH

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:18 to contact: Sherlock_ **

(…)

(…)

(…)

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:27 to contact: Sherlock_ **

OK. So the 1:00 was a no show. Been catching up on notes. But the next one’s coming in soon. I’ll pick Rosie up from after school club like usual when I leave here. You’ll have to tell me what happened with the shoe case. I’ll make dinner.

 

**_SMS Message; Monday 18 Feb 2023; Sent 13:27 to contact: J Watson_ **

Of course.

 

***

 

After the day’s last appointment (which was a nasty flare-up of gout) it’s nearly half five, and John spends some time in his closet-sized “office” typing up notes and organising tomorrow’s schedule. When he’s finished, he starts to shut the computer down, but then he pauses to stare at his computer’s generic desktop wallpaper. It’s a happy field of daisies, which he’s not opposed to, but he’s fairly certain the computer came with this one pre-installed as a default.He’d never taken the time to change it; never really considered it. Work has always been work, while personal was personal. Besides, the surgery is usually overbooked with appointments and semi-emergency walk-ins (which weren’t often turned away), and there’s hardly enough time for a meal break most days let alone time to waste mucking about with personal touches.

 

Yet, the other staff doctors keep family photos around on their desks, bric-a-brac acquired on holiday, custom photo wallpapers on their computers. Even the girl at reception has a picture of her dog set as custom wallpaper, and judging by the patient (and staff) reactions, Roy the Labrador is a hit.

 

John pulls up his text messages on his mobile. He saves the photo of Sherlock and Rosie and sends it to his work e-mail address. At the end of this entirely non-work-related detour, he has Sherlock and Rosie staring at him from his computer’s desktop wallpaper. He feels oddly satisfied by it, as if he’s just bared a piece of himself to the public. It’s silly, he knows. Only his colleagues may ever see this photo on display, and they’ll probably recognise both John’s daughter and Sherlock. Especially Sherlock, as he’s known as more of a local celebrity than just John’s… other half. Yes, his other half. But even that’s far from common knowledge.

 

As he chews his lip — a nervous habit — John needlessly straightens the few loose items on his desk — another nervous habit — and packs up to leave.

 

He checks his mobile. No new messages, other than a random meme from one of his rugby mates, and he wasn’t really expecting any. Sherlock has no doubt engrossed himself in the chemical experiment du jour and wouldn’t be fiddling with his mobile. It’s to be expected. In fact, he’d’ve been shocked if Sherlock carried on text chatting like he had today. A string of texts from Sherlock that isn’t entirely about Sherlock himself, or about needing milk and more McVitie’s digestives, or otherwise demanding and rudely forward is something of a surprise.

 

John smiles for nobody but himself. Life has been good. Busy, exhausting, but very good. He’ll pick his daughter up from after school club, he’ll ask her about her day, and they’ll go home, and Sherlock will be there, too. The routine of it is comforting, the domesticity — non-traditional but domesticity all the same — and it makes John smile some more as he reaches to shut off the monitor. He can’t wait to walk out of here and…

 

He thinks he might just lo—

 

“That’s a great photo,” somebody announces from behind.

 

He nearly leaps into the rafters. It’s Sarah. He’d thought she’d already gone.

 

John catches her eye and smiles, although it’s for some reason strained and awkward. “Er, yeah, thanks. Um.”

 

“It’s lovely, actually.” She’s watching John closely. She’s so sure of herself, propping up the doorframe there, scrutinising him — but not in a way that’s at all malicious.

 

He wilts under the attention, especially because it’s from Sarah. Since mutually breaking off their relationship all those years ago — and it’s practically been an eternity — he still feels awkward, at times, although he’s beginning to think that’s his own default setting. At first they’d maintained a cautious distance, and then — luckily — it had thawed into something more amiable. As adults, they were mature enough to realise what wouldn’t work wasn’t worth agonising over. That was a god send, especially considering they have to work together now for the foreseeable future. Truth is, he honestly likes Sarah all-around as a person and as a friend.

 

And Sarah has been more than kind to John since they broke up — hiring him again and again over the years after unexpected absences. She had been a guest at his wedding. She had sent sympathy cards when she heard of Mary’s death (and Sherlock’s fake death, too, although after the great resurrection, she’d sent a darkly hilarious follow-up homemade “happy un-death” card addressed to both of them). She’s sent ‘get well’ cards to Sherlock throughout his long and (admittedly) rather ugly recovery from his drugs habit. She’s sent cards and gifts to Rosie for every birthday and Easter and Christmas. In fact, she adores Rosie. She has a child of her own now, a little boy, just a hair younger than Rosie.

 

“Yeah, well, erm—“ John says, “I’m never bored.”

 

“And he looks good. Sober,” Sarah adds.

 

John nods and thinks about it. “Well, I’d say it’s been about… ten months strictly sober now. Longest it’s been for a while. He kind of just… falls off the wagon every so often.” He clears his throat, nods again, pretends it’s no big issue, then goes on, “But not at home, never when Rosie’s around. He’ll disappear. He always comes back, eventually.” He leaves out the ugly bits, the endless worry and the hellish nights spent awake in bed wondering if Sherlock was alive or dead, John’s bouts of over-drinking, the awkward questions from Rosie, desperate phone calls and text messages to Lestrade (never to Mycroft): _Keep an eye out for Sherlock, please._ And the eventual resurfacing, which usually always involves Mycroft. John cannot completely dislike Mycroft, nor can he really shut him out. They are, after all, strange allies.

 

John hopes this ten months is something that’ll extend forever. (But he’s not naive enough to expect it.)

 

“You can’t help that,” says Sarah. “You know it. It’s a process.”

 

“Right, of course.” John keeps nodding. He’s starting to feel like a bobble-head doll.

 

“I’d say he was an addict when you met him. It’s something that never really goes away.”

 

“I know that,” John says, defensively. “I didn’t at first, but… Yes, he’s an addict. I hold him responsible for that. I know he’s his own person, capable of making his own choices. He struggles; I think he really does.”

 

“As do you.”

 

John frowns. “I suppose.”

 

“As a single parent, for so many years,” Sarah mentions. “And as Sherlock’s partner.”

 

“It’s a privilege,” John interjects.

 

“And you are a good partner, John. It’s okay to not know where things are going. It’s okay to be patient.”

 

“I will always be patient,” John admits.

 

“It’s also okay to be doubtful. It’s your right.”

 

“Rosie doesn’t need doubtful.”

 

“Well what child does? You are her parent, John,” Sarah challenges him. “Sherlock is… what, at best?”

 

“She adores him.”

 

“Of course she does.”

 

_He adores her,_ John thinks. “But I can’t rely on him,” he admits.

 

“Not all the time, no. But I think, just maybe, your daughter gives him purpose. I think he sees that and he appreciates that.”

 

John lets the words sink in, and only afterwards does the meaning become apparent.

 

Sarah then abruptly slaps her hand against the doorframe and pushes herself away from it. She says, “I’ll see you later, John. Have a nice evening.”

 

“See you later,” John replies, automatically, a bit nonplussed by the whole interaction. “Cheers.”

 

“Maybe we’ll meet up for drinks at the weekend, yeah?” Sarah asks as she heading down the hall.

 

“Sure.” John stands there for several moments. Then he pulls on his coat. Makes sure he has his wallet and keys.

 

It’s a five-minute brisk walk to Charing Cross and the Northern line which will take him to Rosie’s after school club. He cannot wait. Seats are limited, but there’s one with a crinkled issue of the Metro on it. Small blessings. The articles are sensational but interesting.

 

When Rosie sees him, she immediately starts to chatter. She tells him that Sherlock came to drop off art supplies for her and that the teacher “fancies him loads”. Her words.

 

“Is that so,” John murmurs.

 

But Rosie is already onto something else. She’s nearly seven, and her sharp wit never ceases to surprise. She’s going on now about a classmate who’s got a funny name, but she makes sure to add that this boy is quite good at maths.

 

“What’s in the folder?” John asks, trying to steer the conversation in a more productive direction. He’s holding her hand tight. King’s Cross is mayhem this time of day, as it usually is all hours of the day. They navigate the fare gate and the escalator and John marches them to the correct platform and when they finally make, they trudge all the way to the end of the platform, as far away from the throng as possible.

 

“I made a picture,” Rosie finally answers.

 

“Oh? Can I see?”

 

“It’s for Sherlock.”

 

“Is it?” John reaches to take the folder.

 

Rosie frowns but gives it up.

 

John stares at the artwork. It’s the raw work of a child, no doubt, but he finds himself giving it more than one appreciative look. “Rosie— can I ask you why you chose to paint this?”

 

“I want Sherlock to stay,” says Rosie, simply.

 

“Of course he’s going to stay, Rosie. He lives with us.”

 

“No. Sometimes he goes.”

 

John frowns. He looks at the painting, looks back at his daughter. He decides to be honest. “Yes, sometimes he does.”

 

“I don’t want him to go,” Rosie says.

 

“That’s not our choice.”

 

“You should tell him not to go.”

 

“Well, I don’t really have a say in it,” John says.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I just—“ John sighs. Speaking with a child Rosie’s age shouldn’t be this mentally exhausting, but there you have it. She is, after all, Mary’s child, and she was also — partially — raised by Sherlock. John cannot deny the massive part in Rosie’s childhood Sherlock has played. It didn’t happen by design, but John figures that sometimes these things cannot be planned.

 

John steels himself for a universal truth he’s about to drop on his first-born. God, he is not equipped to handle any of this. “Rosie-bee, listen— sometimes as an adult, relationships are complicated, and—“

 

“Why do _you_ call me that?” she interrupts, making a face. “It’s funny.”

 

“Call you what? ‘Rosie-bee’?” John asks.

 

The crowd around them on the platform gets thicker. John decides to forego the first train that stops, although he knows the next one will probably be just as crowded. But for now, they aren’t bothered by lingering on the platform, even though it’s noisy and stuffy.

 

Rosie says, “Sherlock calls me that.”

 

“I thought it was a nice nickname; I like it,” John defends himself.

 

“Then tell him to never leave.”

 

John sighs. “Like I said, it’s not my choice, Rosie. It’s just really not my choice. It’s Sherlock’s.”

 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Rosie whines. “He should want to stay.”

 

“He does,” John says. “He hasn’t gone for a while, has he? He wants to stay.” He doesn’t know if he’s lying or telling the truth. He’d like to think he knows Sherlock’s motives, but he doesn’t — never has. Every time John has attempted to pressure Sherlock on the subject, Sherlock pushes back three-fold.

 

Relationships _are_ complicated.

 

“Okay,” Rosie says.

 

John knows that she’s not completely assuaged. Reluctantly, he thinks this is a conversation that should come up in Sherlock’s presence. Maybe, if Sherlock were to hear Rosie’s concerns directly from her mouth…

 

Sherlock is a good man. He would listen.

 

There’s the distant whooshing and rumbling of the next train approaching. They squeeze their way onto it and John holds his daughter close as it rattles its way to the Baker Street station.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always on the look-out for fandom pals to Sherlock-obsess with. Also if anybody knows of any good active fic-exchanges to participate in... please let me know!


End file.
